The Pink Motor Scooter and the Light Blue Vespa

Jenny adjusted the chin strap of her pink helmet. She checked the map one last time and put it in the back pocket of her cut off jeans. She checked her watch. It was 3:20 pm. Good. She had enough time to go where she wanted and get back before her parents got home. Then she kicked-started her pink motor scooter, shifted into low and sped off. She drove through the tree lined streets of her Minneapolis neighborhood and out to highway 12. Then she headed west. The wind rushing past her face felt clean and refreshing. Her scooter's top speed of forty-two miles per hour gave her a feeling of power. She loved it. The freedom of being on the road was what she needed. It felt good to getaway.

            Forty-five minutes later she stopped at the only stoplight in the small town of Long Lake, seventeen miles west of her home. She paused a moment before taking a right and driving down a short street to Lakeside Park. She got off her scooter near a clump of lilacs, took off her helmet and shook out her long blond hair. She clipped the helmet to the handlebar and walked across the sandy beach to the lakeshore and out to the end of the public dock. She sat down and took off her socks and black boots and set them aside. She dangled her feet in the refreshing water and looked around, feeling herself finally relaxing.

            The lake wasn't too big, maybe a mile long and a quarter mile wide. There were fishing boats, sail boats and even a kayaker or two out on the sparkling blue water. Overhead, a few gulls floated on a light breeze. Nearby, some ducks swam in circles, looking for food. Watching the scene, Jenny felt herself calming down even more. She lay back on the dock, it's wooden planks warm against her shoulder blades. She rested. But not for long. Soon her memories returned.

            Damn him. Damn that friggin' Randy. Why did he have to do that? Jenny suddenly sat up and reached in her pocket. She took out her wallet and opened it. Inside was a photograph of her boyfriend. Check that. Former boyfriend. The jerk had the audacity to come up to her at lunch today with his arm around that skanky Belinda and say, 'Sorry, Babe. It's over.' Or something like that. All Jenny remembers now is his smirky smile and his friggin' red lips, the lips that kissed her so passionately just a few days earlier on Saturday night. Well, to hell with him.

            Jenny took the photo of her now former boyfriend's smarmy face and methodically ripped in two. Then she put the pieces together and ripped them in two. Then, again. Then she dropped them in the water and watched as a school of sunfish quickly swarmed to them and nibbled at their edges, then, just as quickly, finding nothing of interest to eat, they darted away and disappeared.

            Jenny laughed, "Yeah, go ahead and take off. I don't blame ya'."

            Feeling much, much better, she checked her watch; 4:50 pm. Better get going. She went back to her scooter, put on her helmet and started it up. She drove up to the corner and took a left, heading for home, narrowly missing an old lady in a burgundy Prius. "Damn, better watch myself," Jenny muttered as she gunned the motor and drove away. She had begun thinking about that new kid in class, Jeffrey something or other. He was tall, had long hair and a smile that seemed to look right inside of  her. "Now he's someone I can see myself with," she smiled to herself, "It might be fun getting to know him, maybe even take him for a ride sometime." She twisted the throttle to get as much speed out of the little scooter as she could and leaned into the wind. Her thoughts were consumed with that new boy, Jeffrey. She couldn't get home soon enough.

            Freja Ann Jorgenson gasped as the young girl on the pink scooter sped by, narrowly missing the front bumper of her newly washed car. "My Lord," she said to herself, her right hand resting on her chest just above her heart, "That young lady almost ran into me."Freja looked in the review mirror and watched as the little scooter disappeared down the road. Kids these days. What can you do? She smiled and shook her head with a forbearance toward youth that came with age. That might have been her at one time. After all, she'd been young once herself .

            The light changed and she eased the accelerator pedal down. She was heading home after working her shift at Great Harvest Moon coop. She had some fresh free range eggs she wanted to cook into a nice omelet for dinner for Ralph. Her mouth started watering just thinking about it. "Maybe I'll have some, too," she thought to herself. "Add in some mushrooms and fried onions; a little cheddar cheese, too. That would be good." Her mouth began watering even more.

            She pulled into the driveway, parked the car, crossed to the back patio and went in through the back door. Their tidy, bungalow felt cool to her warm skin. A secure feeling. She smiled a contented smile, "I'm home," she called out, "Ralph, are you here?"

            "Downstairs."

            "What're doing?"

            "Looking through some old photos."

            Again? She smiled and shook her head. Oh, well. They were both seventy-six years old. They'd been married for fifty-five years and had lived in their home for the last fifty of those years. They knew each other as well as two people could possibly know each other. There were probably worse ways he could spend his time. "I'll fix us some dinner, okay?"

            "Sure. What's on the docket?"

            "I've got fresh eggs from the coop. How does an omelet sound?:

            "Sounds fantastic. Need any help?"

            "No. I'll give you a yell when they're done."

            "I'll be here."

            "Funny," Freja thought to herself and went about preparing dinner.

            Half an hour later, they were finishing up their evening meal, each of them savoring the omelet Freja had prepared, not to mention her homemade strawberry jam she'd brought out to go along with the fresh muffins she'd decided at the last minute to whip up. Ralph dabbed the sides of his mouth with his napkin, sat back, sighed a satisfied sigh and asked, "So how was work today? How was the coop?"

            "It was fine, but driving home was a little scary. I almost had an accident."

            "What! What happened?" Ralph exclaimed and leaned forward, concerned, "Are you all right?"

            "Yes, yes, yes. I'm fine." Freja waved a hand to indicate she really was fine, "It was down by the lake. At the stoplight. A young girl pulled right out in front of me. Land sakes, I almost hit her."

            "But you're okay, right? You're sure?"

            "I'm fine. I was a little shaken, but I'm okay now."

            "That's good." Ralph sat back and was quiet for a few moments, thinking. Then he asked, "What kind of a car was she driving?"

            "It wasn't a car. It was one of those motorcycle things. Small."

            "A motor scooter?"

            "I guess, yes. A motor scooter. It was pink. A pink motor scooter."

            "Pink?"

            'Yes. Pink."

            Ralph looked at his wife fondly. She watched as his eyes moved away from the present to somewhere back in time, "Remember when we first started dating? I had that light blue scooter? That Vespa? Remember that?"

            Freja cast her memory back with her husband to those long ago years. Back when they were young and lived just down the road from each other on their parent's west central Minnesota farms. Back then Ralph was tall and thin and handsome and strong. He could work his father's field all day long and still find time for courting her late into the night. They had been friends in grade school, sweet hearts in high school and then husband and wife before either of them finished college at the University of Minnesota. Freja had been a third grade teacher her entire working life. Ralph had been an engineer in Minneapolis at Twin City Tool and Die. They'd raised four children. They were grandparents to seven boys and girls. Life had been good to them.

            "Yes," she said, "Yes, I do remember that scooter of yours. I even remember that you let me drive it sometimes. It was fun. Whatever happened to it?"

            "Don't you remember? I sold it after Eddie was born. We used some of the money to help us buy this house?"

            "Oh, yes. That's right."

            Now she did remember. She remembered riding on the back of that scooter, arms around Ralph's waist, holding him close as the fresh summer night breeze cooled their warm, passionate bodies. She remembered the ticking of the engine as they lay in the grass, deep kisses leading to deeper passion. She remembered it all with the warm fondness of a lifetime love still cherished.

            Ralph watched the change coming over his wife and had an idea. "Do you want to see some photos of that old Vespa? I've got some downstairs."

            Freja came back to the present and smiled at her husband, "Yes, Ralph, I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

            "Good," he said, rising from the table, "You stay right here. It's my turn to do the dishes. Let me get them out of the way, then I'll go get the photo albums. I'll bring them up here, okay? We can look at them here on the table."

            Freja sat quietly remembering the past while Ralph cleared the plates. In her mind she saw the two of them together so many years ago, young at heart, riding that light blue Vespa down those old dusty farm roads. Her memories came flooding back. She smiled.

            Suddenly she stood up, "Let me help with the clean up tonight, Ralph. Then you can get those photos while I get us some ice cream. A little treat for us. How's that sound?"

            Ralph smiled and gave his wife a hug, feeling in her warm embrace the years of their marriage ever present, his love for her just as strong as it ever was."Ice cream sounds wonderful," he said. She hugged him back. They set to work on the dishes, both of them pleasantly drifting back in time, riding down those dusty back roads, already reliving the memories they'd had with that old blue Vespa.

           

Blood Work

I watched the blood swirling around in the sink. "My god, there's a lot of it," I thought to myself, "Way more than I expected." I took hold of the bar of soap, lathered my hands and kept washing them, extra vigorously this time, trying to get more of the blood off. The bright red color running down the drain looked like the aftermath of my ill advised decision to let my son chose the color of his bedroom walls many years ago. 'I'd like blood red, Dad,' he'd said. I had agreed, much to the disappointment of my wife. And anger. I never did get that roller brush clean. And, as I recall, it took three coats of Glidden's Sea Green semi-gloss to cover it all. (Plus the entire next weekend.)

            Anyway, the blood wasn't washing away very quickly. Where did it all come from? I'd read a lot of books on crime. In fact, I was sort of a student of the macabre, so I knew that the human body contained around a gallon and a half of the stuff (about the size of the bucket you might use to wash your car) and it seemed like that's the amount I was washing off my hands. Man, I'd never expected there to be so much.

            I was in the bathroom, right off the kitchen. The sink was porcelain and the raspberry juice red of the blood contrasted with the sink's sparkling white. I wondered briefly if the blood would stain it. Shit. Once more thing to worry about.

            The more I washed and tried to clean my hands, the more of a mess I seemed to be making. Blood was splattering everything: up around the faucets, against the white tile backsplash and down the sides of the sink, dripping onto the pristine white tile floor. Geez, I'd be cleaning up forever.

            I glanced in the mirror as I washed. My face looked every bit of its age of seventy-one. My eyes were tired looking, bags drooping underneath. The hair on my head was thin, nearly gone, my beard was wispy and scraggly. I looked the kind of guy who would be washing blood from their hands after committing a violent crime. Not the best image to be confronted with at this stage of my life. Not at all.

            Suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. Bam! Bam! Bam!

            "Grandpa. Grandpa. What are you doing in there?"

            A grin appeared on my haggard face. "There's no one here," I said, talking to the closed door, still scrubbing furiously, "No one here but us vampires."

            Giggles on the other side from Lari and Lori, my nine-year old twin granddaughters. It was Thursday afternoon, my day to stay with them after school until my son and his wife got home from work.

            Lori called out, "Grandpa, please, please, please, what are you doing?"

            "Yeah," Lari said, "Tell us, tell us, tell us."

            I decided to come clean (pun intended) and tell them, "I'm washing off that blood we got at the hobby store. I'm sort of making a mess in here."

            "You mean fake blood, don't you, Grandpa?" says Lori, "It was fake blood that we bought."

            "Let us see. Please, let us see," Lari called out. Then, more pounding. Bam! Bam! Bam!

            I could picture them jumping up and down outside the door in joyful glee. It made my heart glad. They were good kids. I cast a quick glance at myself in the mirror. At the sound of their voices, I swear my eyes became brighter and the bags under them seemed less, well, baggy. Even my beard seemed fuller. My granddaughters had that way about them, making me feel younger. (Looking younger? Well, that surely was all in my imagination.)

            "Just a second." I grabbed some paper towels from under the sink and dried off my hands, leaving red smears and smudges all over the place. "Come on in," I opened the door.

            The girls are identical red heads. They've got long hair, green eyes, freckles, the whole bit. One thing they enjoyed doing together was playing practical jokes. Today after they'd gotten home from school we'd gone to our favorite store, Phil's Magic Emporium, and made some purchases. The plan was that we were going to surprise their parents when they got home from work today with something to do with fake blood. We'd also bought some other things.

            The girls looked at the mess in the bathroom and let out a collective, "Yuck!"

            "I know," I said, "I think the fake blood is going to be too much of a mess to work with. What do you two think?"

            While the girls pondered my question, I finished washing my hands. Then I gave them each some paper towels, got some spray cleaner and we cleaned out the sink as well as everything else within a five foot radius. (I ended up using a lot of spray bleach. A lot of paper towels, too.)

            When we were done, Lori said, "I think you're right Grandpa. I don't think Mom or Dad with would like the blood."

            "But we did get some other stuff at the store. Remember Grandpa," Lari said, starting to get excited all over again.

            "Yes, we did. They are so cool. Should I go get them Grandpa?" Lori asked.

            I'd been so busy trying to clean up I'd forgotten. I'd let each of the kids pick out something else, just in case the blood idea didn't work out, which obviously it didn't.

            I played along, joking with them, "I'm getting old and forgetful. What else was it we bought again?" I scratched my chin to emphasize my forgetfulness.

            The girls ran into the kitchen, giggling and pulling me along. On the counter was a shopping bag and they opened it, each taking out a treasured purchase.

            "Here, Grandpa," Lori said, holding up a rubber slab of fake vomit.

            "Here's mine," Lari said, holding up a clump of fake dog poop.

            I laughed. They were just the kinds of things I'd have bought way back when, back when I was their age. God, I loved my grandkids.

            I warmed up to the task at hand, "Those each will really surprise your parents," I told them, laughing.

            They both grinned back at me, "Will you help us put them someplace, Grandpa?" Asked Lari.

            "Please," Grandpa, "Lori said, "Someplace special. Pretty please?"

            "You bet I will," I told them, "Let's go find a couple of really good places."

            "Goody, goody," they both said in unison.

            Then they each took me by the hand and off we went, and all I'll say is this: We were able to find a couple of really good places; their parents were truly surprised later that evening when they got home from work.

            Oh, and all three of us are grounded from the Magic Emporium for the next six weeks. But what the heck, it was worth it.

           

Friends

Dave was sprawled on the couch watching the evening news when an incoming text beeped. He glanced at it and sighed, "Shit, JT, what the hell?" He set his phone down without looking at the message. "Man, just give me a moment to myself," he was thinking, "Just let me chill and unwind a bit."

            He'd been home for half an hour, had showered, put on some clean clothes and fixed a plate of fruit: a sliced up honeycrisp apple, a hand full of red seedless grapes and a little chunk of havarti cheese. All he wanted was to chill a little; hang out and relax. He was beat. He had just finished a ten hour shift as what his boss called a sous chef at a local restaurant. Right. Dave grimaced when he thought about his job, because he was under no illusions whatsoever about the work he did; what he did food prep and that was that. Pure and simple. Any idiot could do it. The fact that The Egg and I was a locally sourced, natural foods eatery that regularly made the top ten list for places to eat in the Twin Cities didn't hide that fact, not one little bit. At least to Dave, anyway.

            But, he didn't mind. He liked the work. Liked that he made enough money for he and JT to rent the one bedroom apartment in the hundred year old brown stone on Emerson Avenue in an older neighborhood of Minneapolis. Liked that he was close enough so he could walk to work in ten minutes and not have to drive his old Ford Fiesta. Liked that he could help pay the bills. (JT made good wages working for Gibertson's Environmental Services, cleaning high rise office buildings in downtown Minneapolis late at night.) He liked that he could even save some money so maybe he could go to college one day; if he ever decided he wanted to.

            But for now...now he had to deal with JT. He fired up his water pipe and took a hit of Raspberry Crush, pulling the smoke down deep into his lungs and savoring it as he reached for his phone, "Let's see what the guy's up to."

            He read the text. It was short and sweet. Well not all that sweet. What it said was a cryptic, "Come get me."

            What the hell was going on now? Dave knew JT had had the day and the night off. He knew his friend was going to ride his fat tire bike somewhere. But it was the middle of winter and cold out for christ's sake. How far could he have gone?

            Dave looked out the window. Their apartment was on the third floor of the three story building. It was in the middle of the block, right across from a street light. Through the bright illumination he could make out the snow flurries that had begun to falling earlier in the day. It was beginning to snow harder, now, showing no sign of letting up.

            Damn.

            "What's up?" he texted back.

            "At RR. Need ride."

            Well, for double christ's sake. RR was the Red Rooster, a bar in Long Lake. It was the bar Dave and JT would sometimes stop at when they rode their bicycles from Minneapolis to the little town, twenty miles to the west. It was an area of woods and fields in western Hennepin County known for its well kept bike trails. They enjoyed going fat tire riding on those trails. Liked it a lot. But that was during the summer (or spring or fall, for that matter), not in the middle of February. Not in the middle of winter. Not with a foot of snow on the ground and more on the way. What the hell had JT been thinking?

            Well, Dave had a guess. JT had developed a thing for the bartender out there. A serious infatuation. At least he had last Christmas when the weather had been mild and they'd both ridden out to check on the trails. On the way home they'd stopped at the Rooster. The bartender was a handsome guy named Jeff and JT had immediately been drawn to him. In fact, he'd stayed drawn to him even though he'd never once been back to the bar to see him. JT liked to imagine the best when it came to relationships, instead of taking steps to show the person how he felt - imagine being the operative word here. He liked to pretend that whomever he'd fallen for was going to reciprocate his feelings. The way Dave saw it, it was easier for JT to just play the game in his head rather than act on his feelings. Except for now. Now, apparently his friend had decided to follow his heart and take things a step further. Yep, the more Dave thought about it, the more he figured that, yeah, that's exactly what JT had done.

            "Jeff?" Dave texted back.

            "No. Jeff's gone. Marybeth."

            Dave sighed. Jesus. When it came to infatuations, JT was an equal opportunity kind of guy. A good looking man or a good looking woman, it didn't matter. If there was a spark that JT felt, that's all it would take. Next stop, Love City.

            Dave and JT had been friends for almost their entire lives, having met back in grade school in Miss Whipholt's third grade class. Back then parents and teachers called the two boys introverted and socially awkward. Labels notwithstanding, Dave and JT only knew they preferred to not be around a lot of other people. They bonded over a love of bicycles and bike riding. Over time, their small coaster brake Huffys evolved to trek dirt bikes, diamond back mountain bikes and Schwinn fifteen speed racers, until finally, now, to each of them owning a treasured Raleigh Pardner fat tire bicycle. Riding bikes was a pleasant, solitary activity, something they could do alone or together. As the years passed, they did it together, more often than not.

            Now in their mid twenties, they were still friends, close friends, best of friends, in fact. Close enough that Dave texted back, "What a bunch of BS."

            Apparently unperturbed by Dave's response, JT responded with a smiley face. Then, after a short pause, another text pleading, "Come get me?" and another smiley face.

            Jesus.

            Dave could see it now. JT had ridden his bike out to the Red Rooster on his day off, thinking he'd be able to make it with Jeff. Jeff had been gone. Who knows, quit maybe; maybe even hiding in the back room, but gone nevertheless. So JT strikes up a conversation with Marybeth, a new bartender, and one thing leads to another. It gets to be make it or break it time and MB informs JT that she's not interested. Maybe she has a boyfriend. Maybe a girlfriend. Whatever...The point is, she's not interested. JT starts drinking and time goes by. It starts snowing. He's getting drunk. Suddenly he realizes he can barely stand, let along ride a bike all the way back to Minneapolis. So what's he do? He sends a text to his pal. His good buddy. Good old Dave.

            Dave sat back on the couch and glanced at the television. Colbert was just coming on. He watched for a minute or so and laughed once or twice at some jokes made at the expense of the current president. Colbert was really pretty funny sometimes.

            Beep. Another text. "U coming?"

            Dave lit up the pipe and took another hit. He looked around the living room, the main room of the apartment. It might not have a lot of furniture but that was all right. He slept on the couch he was now sitting on, JT had the bedroom. There was also a small bathroom and a tiny, galley kitchen. It wasn't the biggest space in the world, but the price was right and it worked for them. And it was clean. They both made sure of that. No one said that just because you were a guy in your twenty's you had to be a slob. Both he and JT liked to keep their place neat and tidy and looking good. And it was.

            On the table across from him was the television. Next to it was a red lava lamp with a gold base they'd bought together over three years earlier when they'd first moved in; a kind of housewarming gift to themselves. Dave watched the red mass bubble away for a few seconds and then got to his feet. He turned off Colbert, picked up his plate, went to the kitchen and washed it. Then he took out a stick of sandalwood incense, put it in its holder and set it carefully in the base of the aluminum kitchen sink. It'd be safe there. Then he lit it. JT would like the aroma when he came in.

            He picked up his phone and texted, "On my way. B there in 45."

            He put on his boots, winter jacket and wood cap before grabbing his car keys. He locked the apartment and made his way downstairs to the parking lot where his old Ford Fiesta was parked. He started the engine and turned on the heater. While the car warmed up he took his brush and stepped outside to clean off the snow. It felt like the temperature was around ten degrees. What the hell had JT been thinking, riding out to Long Lake today? Twenty miles in the winter. Man...Dave shook his head, fighting back a grin. What a crazy guy.

            When the snow was removed, he got back inside. The warmth from the heater felt good. Some of the snow on the sleeve of his jacket started to melt. He put the car in reverse and backed up. It usually took about thirty minutes to drive out to Long Lake, but what with the snow and all on a night like tonight it'd definitely take longer. That was okay. It'd be good to see JT. He'd been kind of been missing the guy.

            Just before he pulled out of the lot his phone beeped. Dave stopped and checked it. JT had sent a message: a smiley face and a thumbs up emoji.

            Dave texted a smiley face back.

            Then he put the car in gear and headed out into the snowy winter's night. Yeah, it'd be good to see JT. It'd be nice to see his friend.

Chocolate Malt and Fries

The old man stepped inside through the front door of Snuffy's, the local malt shop, and was inundated by the tantalizing aroma of seared hamburger and crispy french fries. His mouth started watering immediately. It was Thursday afternoon and, like every other Thursday in past memory, he made his way to the front counter.

            "Sit anywhere, Gene," Larry the manager greeted him from his customary position by the cash register, "You've almost got the place to yourself."

            The old man laughed, "Yeah, I can see that. Too bad for you, right?"

            "Well, we need a break. It was packed in here earlier. You know, for the lunch hour."

            "Never hurts when you're making money though, right?"

            "Exactly," Larry smiled, and waved him through to the seating area.

            Gene grinned and made his way to the far wall and sat in the booth half way down, the same booth he always sat in. He took off his jeans jacket and lay it on the bench next to him. He was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, worn blue jeans and work boots. He was nearly bald and sported a trimmed gray beard. He patted his jacket and then took stock of his immediate surroundings: booths along the two walls, windows on one end overlooking the parking lot, tables and chairs in the center, old framed photos on the walls taken of the malt shop both inside and out; all the furnishings of the homey little restaurant he'd come to know and love.

            When he was satisfied that everything was as it should be, he took out a pair of reader glasses and put them on with the careful and measured movements of one who had devoted many years to the practice. Then he reverently picked up the plastic two sided menu and began studying it, reading every line, the movement of his lips barely noticeable, his eyes moving rapidly, missing nothing.

            Joyce, one of the afternoon waitresses, had noticed him come in and grinned, happy to see this particular regular customer. She brought him a glass of ice water and silverware wrapped in a paper napkin and set them down, "Hi, Gene, good to see you. Having the usual? Half a chocolate malt and half an order of french fries?"

            Gene looked up from his reading, "You hit the nail right on the head, Joyce. Chocolate malt and fries it is. Same as usual."

            Joyce smiled and didn't even bother writing it down, "Sounds good. It'll be coming right up." She fought back an urge to pat the old guy lovingly on the shoulder. She liked him a lot; he kind of reminded her of her father.

            Gene returned to reading the menu, and Joyce went back behind the counter to put in the order and make the malt.

            Clare was the other waitress, "How's he doing today?"

            Joyce reached for the metal blender container and scooped in ice cream before adding the malt mix and chocolate. She turned and gazed at the old guy with a look of compassion bordering on affection, "Fine. He seems good. He ordered the same thing."

            "Chocolate malt and fries?"

            "Yep, same as always."

            "You'd think he'd change it up every now and then, wouldn't you? Maybe get a strawberry shake and onion rings, something like that."

            "Don't hold your breath. He and his wife used to always order what he's ordering now. I don't ever expect him to change. Ever. Not while he's still alive anyway." Joyce switched on the noisy blender bringing their conversation to an end.

            Clare was relatively new to Snuffy's, only having worked there for a few months. After the malt was mixed, Joyce put the container on tray and set out a tall glass. Clare tapped her on the shoulder. She'd heard the story before but asked anyway, "When did she die again ?"

            Joyce set out a straw and a long handled spoon and then leaned against the counter, thinking, "Two, maybe, three years ago? I don't recall exactly. It's been a while, though."

            "And a chocolate malt and french fires every Thursday since then?"

            "Yeah. He likes the afternoon discount, the 3 to 5 Early Bird Special. Both he and his wife did. They'd order the large chocolate malt and the full order of fries and split it. Now he just does the half order."

            Clare shook her head, "Weird."

            Joyce looked at the young waitress with her dyed black hair and ear piercings that wouldn't quit and offered her own wry comment, "Well, at least he's not home feeling sorry for himself."

            Clare looked at the old man's booth. He was bent over the menu, still reading it even though he'd already ordered. "You're right about that, I suppose."

            Joyce had worked at Snuffy's for over thirty years and had waited on all kinds and types of people. Gene and his wife Julie had been two of the best. They were polite and friendly and not demanding; easy customers to deal with. Now, with Julie gone, she continued to feel a genuine fondness for the nice lady's husband and was glad he still came in for his weekly "Treat" as he called it. She knew full well that his treat was really a sort of homage to his wife and her memory. It was element of his character she felt was actually very sweet.

            "Order up," Johnny the fry cook called out.

            "Got it." Joyce turned, picked up the plate of fries, put it on the tray and brought it out to the old man.

            When Gene saw Joyce bringing his order, he set aside the menu. He was feeling pretty good with himself. It had been his policy over the last two years, seven months and fifteen days since his beloved Julie had passed away to try to keep himself mentally fit. He knew he was getting old. My god, he was seventy-nine for christ's sake, but that didn't mean he had to become a doddering old fool or a dithering old idiot, did it? No, of course not. That's not what Julie would have wanted for him and neither did he.

            To that end, along with his morning household chores, he took a long walk in the afternoon for fresh air and exercise. He also worked on his memory. Part of his memory work entailed memorizing these kinds of things: his favorite sonnets of Shakespeare; paragraphs from books he enjoyed reading; short articles in magazines and the words to his favorite songs. Stuff like that. He also challenged himself try to memorize the kinds of out of the ordinary things that people didn't usually pay any attention to: like the ingredients on the back of boxes of cereal, or the items on a menu in a local malt shop. It was a fun to test himself, and he believed it helped to keep his mind from turning to jello.

            If your asked him about it, Gene would be happy to say that so far his plan had been working out just fine, thank you very much. For example, he could tell you every single flavor of malt Snuffy's made, from chocolate banana fudge to vanilla cream pie; all thirty-seven of them. He could also list the eleven different hamburger selections they offered as well as their various toppings; from your basic cheeseburger to the Snuffy Burger with everything on it. So there.

            He might be old, and he might be slow, but he could still drive his little red Prius to the malt shop from his (and Julie's) home seven miles away in Long Lake. He could still walk from the car and get to a table. And he could still order a little treat for himself, his chocolate malt and fries. Like now.

            Joyce came up to his booth and set his order down, "Here you go Gene," she said, "Should I pour?"

            "Yes, absolutely. You're the expert. I'd just make a mess." Sometimes the thick ice cream would get stuck inside the container and then fall out all at once in a big glob, sliding over the edge of the glass and onto the table in a sticky puddle. It wasn't a pretty sight.

            Joyce did the honors and expertly delivered the malt into the tall glass, "There you go." She turned to leave and then thought, To hell with it, and turned back and patted him on the shoulder. "Enjoy your..." She stopped herself from saying "treat" and said, instead, "...meal."

            "Thanks, Joyce. You're a peach," Gene smiled at her. Then he watched as she walked back to the behind the counter. Nice lady, but then again they all were here at Snuffy's. That was one of the reasons he and Julie had kept coming back for all those years; why he kept coming back now. It never hurt to be around friendly people.

            Then, happy with the success of his memory work, Gene added catsup to his plate and dug right in, savoring every bite of his fries and every sip of his shake. He took his time, too, like every other Thursday, making the experience last as long as possible. And if he had a little memory chat with Julie while he enjoyed his malt and fries, well, so be it. He wasn't hurting anyone.

            Later when he was finished Joyce brought him his bill, the same amount as always. He paid for it, cash, as always, along with the same twenty-percent tip he was happy to leave, as always. He put his money on the table, took one last look around, and said to himself, "So long, Snuffy's, see you next week."

            Then he stood and made his way past the counter on his way to the door, saluting Larry as he went by, "See you, Larry."

            Larry saluted back. "You bet."

            Then he turned to the waitresses. "Good bye, ladies," he waved to Joyce and Clare, "See you next Thursday."

            "Bye, Gene," Clare said.

            "Always good to see you, Gene. Have a good week," Joyce added.

            They both watched as the old guy went out the front door to the parking lot. Then they went back to work, Clare filling catsup bottles and Joyce wiping down tables.

            Feeling good about the day, Gene paused next to his car and breathed deeply. Ah, it was the beginning of May and spring was in the air. Soon the gardens would be in full bloom. It was one of Julie's favorite times of year, and, because of that, it was one of his, too. He paused, thinking for maybe the one-hundredth time that day about his dear wife, his fond memories swirling like so many butterfly's fluttering around so many fragrant flowers. Then he shook himself out of his happy and nostalgic reverie. Time to go. Time to hit the road.

            He reached into his front pocket for his car keys, and his good mood vanished in an instant. His hand came up empty. They weren't there. Damn. He checked again. Nope, nothing. Shit. Where were they? They were usually right there, right in the front right hand pocket of his jeans. He quickly searched through his other pockets, front and back, until it became obvious: the keys weren't in any of them. They weren't anywhere.

            Suddenly he felt an undercurrent of panic. Oh, my, god, what's going on? Is my memory starting to go? Am I losing my mind? His heart began racing, pounding like a sledgehammer. He pressed a hand against his chest to slow it down. It didn't help.

            Feeling faint, he sank against the fender of his car. What's happening to me? His breath was short and came in gasps. Am I having a heart attack?

            The next voice he heard was Joyce's' "Gene, Gene. What's wrong? Talk to me."

            Joyce had been watching out the window as he walked to his car, just to make sure he got there alright. She'd seen him pause as he searched his pockets. "What's going on with him?" she wondered. When she'd seen him fall against the side of his car she'd run outside.

            "Are you okay?" She put a comforting arm around his shoulder. "Maybe you should come back inside and sit down. Catch your breath a little."

            Embarrassed, Gene waved her off, "No, no. I'm okay." He had no idea what had happened, but after that first rush of panic his heart had unexpectedly returned to normal; its rapid beating slowing considerably, almost down to where it should be. Maybe it had been a panic attack over the lost keys or something like that. He'd read that those kinds of things could happen sometimes.

            Just then Clare ran up carrying his jeans jacket."Gene, you forgot this. It's your jacket. You left it inside. I thought you might need it."

            Gene reached out, "Clare, thank you so much."

            As she handed him his jacket he could hear a familiar jingling in the pocket. He smiled to himself as he suddenly remembered. That's right. He'd put the keys in the jeans jacket pocket when he'd gotten out of the car, not his pants pocket like he normally did. He gratefully took his jacket and removed his car keys, jangling them in his hand as he did so. Mystery solved. Whew. A simple mistake, that was all it was. "Good thing I'm not going nuts," he thought.  In fact, he was starting to get back to feeling like his old self again.

            Joyce and Clare stayed with him, though, just to make sure he was truly alright. Even Larry came out to check on the old guy.

            Gene appreciated everyone's concern, he truly did, but in his mind it was much to do about nothing. He was feeling good, back to how he'd felt a few minutes earlier when he'd walked outside into the mid spring afternoon after a satisfying meal of a chocolate malt and french fries. With that kind of meal under his belt how could he not help but feel on top of the world? Well, he certainly did now.

            After talking with the caring employees for a few more minutes he told everyone he that he was in good shape and feeling fine and that he really had to get going. He said his final good-byes, got in his car, started it up and drove through the parking lot to the exit. Heck, it was just a little memory lapse, that's all it was.

            But when he was getting ready to leave the parking lot, he had a sudden idea. "It's so nice out, maybe I should do something to enjoy it." He pondered for just a moment. "It's a perfect day to go for a drive so why not go for one?"

            And just like that he made a snap decision. He flipped on his turn signal. Instead of turning to the left to go home, he would turn to the right instead. Today, he'd go on a little journey. Maybe he'd head out around the big lake nearby, Lake Minnetonka, and check out the scenery. "It wouldn't hurt, would it, to do something a little out of the ordinary? To shake up the routine a little? Doing different things was supposed to be good for the mind, right? A good way to keep one's brain active. Besides, it was a beautiful spring day so why not?" In fact, he was pretty sure Julie would for sure think it was a good idea, and that's what sealed the deal for him.

            So, instead of going left to go home, he went right.

            Back inside the malt shop, Joyce had been watching from the window. She saw him take his right turn onto the busy street. As he did, she had a vague recollection. Hmm, didn't he normally go to the left? She thought for a moment. Oh, shit. Yeah, he always did go to the left. Damn. Something must be the matter.

            She turned and yelled, "Guys, I think Gene's going the wrong way." She grabbed her purse and started running, "Larry, I'm going to be gone for a while. I've got to check to make sure he's okay. Clare, cover for me."

            Then she was out the door and sprinting for her car. What she was going to do if she caught him, she had no idea. All she knew was that she had to do something. She started her car and sped off, hoping she'd be able to catch him. Hoping the old guy wouldn't do anything to hurt himself. Hoping she wouldn't be too late and she'd find him and he'd be alright. Years ago, her father had driven off a few times and got himself lost. He'd even gotten into a couple of accidents, too, before the end. She didn't want that to happen to Gene. She liked seeing the old guy every week. She wanted to see him, too, next Thursday, like always. She wasn't ready to lose him just yet.

            She gripped the steering wheel and raced out of the parking lot to the right and sped down the busy street, scanning frantically the cars in front of her. A minute later up ahead she spied a little red one. "Was that Gene's car? It looked like maybe it was. Yeah, it definitely was."

            Joyce breathed a huge sigh of relief. She wasn't going to be too late. It looked as if she was going to catch him. He was going to be alright. Just to be on the safe side, though, she pressed herself to go faster.

A week later, on Thursday afternoon, Clara came upstairs from getting some much needed supplies: catsup, mustard, relish and paper napkins. She noticed that Gene had come in for his usual malt and fries. Joyce was standing next to his table, and they were talking and laughing. "Good," Clare thought to herself, "All is back to normal." She watched as Joyce patted the old guy on the back and made her was back to behind the counter to put in the order.

            "Half order of fries, Joey," Joyce called out. She saw Clare, "Hi. Get those supplies?"

            "Yep. Right here."

            "Good. I'll get started on Gene's malt."

            "Chocolate?"

            Joyce smiled, "Nope. Not this time. He's breaking tradition. He's going to try the blueberry crumble."

            "What?" Clare was visibly aghast. Not his regular chocolate? Is he okay. He hasn't lost his mind, has he?"

            Joyce laughed, "He's perfectly fine," She began to scoop ice cream into the blender container and put the malt together, "He told me he just wanted to shake things up a bit. No pun intended. (Clare grimaced.) He said that he felt he was getting into too much of a routine, and that his routine was turning into a rut, and that being in a rut wasn't good."

            Clare laughed, "Sounds like he thought about it a lot."

            "Yeah, I guess he did," Joyce grinned in agreement. Then she added the rest of the ingredients, put the container in the blender and turned it on.

            While it ran she thought about what had happened a week earlier: how she'd raced after Gene to make sure he was alright. He was of course. He'd stopped for gas at a nearby gas station shortly after Joyce had spied him. She'd parked and walked over to him and, after he'd gotten over his initial surprise, they'd talked. Turns out that Gene was doing great. He'd just wanted to go for, as he had put it, "A little drive to check on the scenery." It was about then, talking in the parking lot of the BP gas station, that Joyce had realized she had made a mistake thinking that Gene was in the same condition her father had been. It was clear that he wasn't. He was cognizant and mentally sound. If he was just a little forgetful, so be it. She was, too, sometimes. She should be happy for him that he was doing as well as he was. And she was. She just needed to back off a little and readjust her thinking.

            "As long as he doesn't hurt himself or put himself in harm's way," was how she thought of it at the time. And she still thinks like that. "It doesn't hurt to care, though. I just need to give him space." And that what she intends to do.

            When the malt was blended and the fries were ready, Joyce put the order on a tray and took it to his booth."Here you go, Gene," she said. She poured out his malt, "Enjoy."

             Gene rubbed his hands together, grinning from ear to ear, "Oh, yes, indeedy. I certainly will."

            Joyce smiled, turned around, and walked back to the counter, dispensing with the shoulder pat, remembering to give him some space.

            Clare was still curious, "So, why do you care so much about him? He's just an old guy, right? Sure he's a regular customer, but we have lots of them."

            Joyce took a moment and then said, "I don't know. There's just something about him. Sure he reminds me of my dad, but there's more. Maybe it's because of how he and his wife were together. I thought it was pretty sweet." She was quiet for a moment, watching Gene sip his malt and savor his fries. "To be honest, I really don't know."

            Just then some more customers came in and Joyce pointed to them,  "Ah, forget about it. Let's get back to work."

            And they did. Gene, for his part, enjoyed his meal. Especially his malt. The blueberry crumble was extremely tasty and a nice change from his usual chocolate. He hadn't told Joyce, but he'd decided that every week for the foreseeable future he was going to try a different flavor. They had thirty-seven, after all. With the blueberry crumble and the chocolate out of the way, he was down two and had thirty-five more to go. After that he'd move on to the hamburgers; he had eleven different varieties to try. That would easily get him into the following year and that was good. He liked coming to the friendly little malt shop. He liked the employees (even if Joyce was a little overly solicitous, that was alright. It was nice that she cared.) He liked the fries. He liked the malts. But, more than that, he liked coming to a place Julie and he used to enjoy. He liked to remember all the good times they'd had at the malt shop, because even though she was gone, she really wasn't. Not in his mind anyway. She'd always be with him.

            After he finished his meal, Gene paid his bill, said his good-byes to Joyce and Grace and went out to the parking lot . He took a moment to enjoy the sun on his face. It was another beautiful spring day. Another good day to go for a drive. In fact, it was a good day to head for the lake. He got in his car, started it up and drove to the exit. When he got there, he hesitated for just a moment and then turned to the right.        

            From the window Joyce and Clare were watching.

            "Must be going to the lake," Joyce said.

            "Yeah, looks like it," Clare said.

            "Okay, then. Let's see about cleaning up those tables."

            The two of them turned and went back to work while Gene went for his drive. He'd be back in a week to try another flavor of malt: strawberry swirl cheesecake this time. His mouth started watering just thinking about it. He was already looking forward to it.